Fly Back to Me
by imdeadsothere
Summary: Ron never liked the Muggles' idea of flying, his fears are only confirmed when Harry is taking a flight somewhere and the plane goes down. Harry is missing, and Ron refuses to believe he's died. SLASH. ONE-SHOT. Character death... or is there?


It couldn't be. No. No way. Definitely not. Harry couldn't be gone. He just… couldn't. He was Harry.

He'd survived so much more. He'd survived Voldemort for crying out loud, twice. He couldn't just be… gone.

"Ron, you need to come to terms with Harry's…"

"He's not gone, Hermione," Ron said sharply, looking up, "he's not."

"Ron, please, the plane has been missing for two weeks now, everyone has been looking for it, wizards and muggles, we would've found it by now, Ron, I really think you need to accept the facts, and start to move on."

"NO!" Ron screamed, standing up, "I'm not going to move on! Harry's fine! He's going to be fine! They're going to find him, and he's going to be okay, he just… he has to be," Ron said. Collapsing back down onto the couch.

Hermione sighed. She'd been trying to help Ron since Harry's plane had gone missing. She herself didn't quite understand why Harry felt he should fly the muggle way rather than taking a portkey, but Harry was Harry. But he did, and so whenever he had to travel somewhere far away, he went by plane. Only this time the plane never made it there. At first she'd had hope. But it had been two weeks. Two weeks with the whole world scouring the planet for it, and still, nothing. As much as she wanted to believe Harry had somehow managed to survived, she didn't think she could anymore.

She sighed again, gently patting Ron's hand.

"Ron, I know you loved Harry, and I know Harry loved you, but I'm sure Harry would want you to start moving on."

"Move on to _what_?" Ron asked, "I have nothing to move on _to_. Harry was my everything, and now that he's gone, I have nothing. I have nowhere left to go, nothing but the hope that somehow he made it through. Why do you think I keep hoping? Hope is all I have left."

Hermione sighed again.

"It's okay," she said quietly, "I understand. I should probably get home, Seamus will be wondering where I am, are you going to be okay tonight?"

"I've managed to survive the past two weeks," Ron grumbled.

"Okay then," Hermione stood up, "I'll stop by tomorrow, are you sure you're going to be okay? Do you want me to call Ginny or something?"

Ron shook his head. Hermione gave him a long hard look. Finally she turned on the telly, figuring it might at least give Ron a distraction, and left. He'd made it this far, he could make it a day more. But how many days more after that? Stepping out onto the street Hermione made sure to lock the doors behind her. She walked out onto the street, just passing the wards, and apparated.

And Ron sat alone in his and Harry's living room and did nothing. He didn't cry. Because Harry wasn't dead. People cry when people have died, and Ron wasn't going to cry. Crying would mean giving up. And he wasn't going to give up. Harry was out there, somewhere, on his way home. Ron just knew it. He could feel it in every vein in his body. Harry, calling to him from somewhere unknown, telling him that he was alive, that he was going to be okay. He just sat there and watched the telly like he and Harry used to, wishing that Harry was sitting there next to him, and knowing that he soon would be.

Hermione had left it on the news. Ron hadn't watched the telly since the night he saw the broadcast about Harry's airplane.

They were talking about it. They still hadn't found the plane. As long as they hadn't found the plane, they hadn't found any bodies. And as long as they hadn't found any bodies, it meant that Harry could still be alive.

With this thought Ron dozed off, falling fast asleep on the couch, dreaming of Harry.

He awoke to knocking in the middle of the night. Three sharp raps against the door.

Groggily, Ron opened his eyes. Pausing, listening. There they were again, three knocks against his door. And it was definitely his door, not the neighbor's. Ron sat up, looking at the clock on the telly. It was just past three in the morning. What would anyone be doing here at that hour?

The knocks came again. They sounded hurried, desperate.

Ron sat up, slowly pushing himself off the couch until he was standing up. He grabbed his wand before stumbling into the entry hallway, rubbing his neck from having fallen asleep on it funny.

"Who is it?" Ron called, approaching the door. No response, just three more knocks.

"I'm coming!" Ron called. Ron flicked on the porch lights and peered through the side window. He couldn't see much through the frosted glass, just the fuzzy shape of a person.

There were the knocks again.

Ron gripped his wand tighter. Who could it be at this hour? He slowly unlocked the door, turning the handle he opened it just a crack.

"Harry?"


End file.
